


State of Change

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Mohinder realizes Nathan is Sylar, he is in too deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	State of Change

_“Cause you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable,  
And life’s like an hourglass, glued to the table.  
No one can find the rewind button, boys,  
So cradle your head in your hands,  
And breathe…just breathe,  
Oh breathe, just breathe_

_There’s a light at the end of this tunnel,  
You shout ‘cause you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out  
And these mistakes you’ve made, you’ll just make them again  
If you only try turning around _   
**-Anna Nalick, _Breathe_ **

Mohinder likens it to an addiction.

It is certainly not beneficial to his health, mental or otherwise. Allowing himself the troubling contemplations that always follow, he finds the word ‘want’ problematic in that it suggests compliance. Then again, ‘need’ isn’t much better as it reeks of uncontrollable desire, a natural instinct that cannot be reigned in.

He hates feeling that he is at the mercy of confused emotions that suffocate until release is the one (momentary) reprieve. Of course the only other option, going after what entices and captivates with purpose and vigor, clear and aware, scares him to his core.

Mohinder does not want to take responsibility for what he has done and will surely continue to do. There is no rhyme or reason except to say it is what it is. At times he wishes he could just coast along the cresting wave, but coming back to the same—Occurrence? Mistake? Experience? Inevitability?—denies him the excuse of plausible deniability. After all, how many times can one return to the scene of the crime before motives must be analyzed?

Mohinder is awash in sin and if he believed in god he would spend eternity on his knees begging for the fruit of salvation. As it is, he over thinks all of it, dissecting and recreating the myriad of steps that detail his conscious transgressions. He punishes himself with self-doubt and self-loathing.

The problem with giving into wayward desires that set his skin on fire and spark his mind bright is that it feels so damn good. The rush is unparalleled and everything else falls away. He is no longer Mohinder Suresh, son of a murdered man, brother to a sister he never knew, child of a woman he should have done better by. He is not the lost scientist who is in over his head or the (embarrassingly) synthetically powered person caught in the purgatory between both worlds, and held at an arms length by others in each.

In the fallout of giving in to another taste and touch, of letting his senses win out over logic while trumping reason, they are all that exists.

Perfectly imperfect.

It should not have power over him, but it does. It twists through him and spits him out, and he hates himself for loving it.

_Him._

Waiting.

_Sylar. _

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ********** **

  
_Out of sight, out of mind _is a motto Mohinder can live by with few relapses.

When Sylar is not in his immediate vicinity, which is more often than not, he rarely crosses Mohinder’s mind. In fact, Mohinder can go days, even weeks, without slipping up. But just when he gives himself permission to joke that intended ignorance is a talent, he is reminded of his ever-present vulnerability. A part of him is convinced that the timing is deliberate, that Sylar does it on purpose to make a point.

When Sylar is there, he is everywhere. Mohinder feels his presence like a second skin resting on top of his own. They glare and insult, argue and debate, refuse and demand. There is no physical contact except exacted infringements of personal space meant to be uncomfortable.

In retrospect it is a dyslexic form of foreplay.

The impossible riddle is that it has been Sylar this whole time, in the form of Nathan, whom Mohinder has been working with as the lead scientific researcher for the Administration. It is the disgusting lie, perpetrated by Angela, Bennet and Matt for a misguided greater good that only the first two seem to see.

It is a betrayal.

Given Mohinder’s actions in uncovering the truth and what came next, however, he imagines that his own betrayal—of Peter, Claire, _his father_—is far worse.

It had started off rather innocently. He was a good friend, a confidante, to Nathan as he went through an inexplicable yet ultimately painful identity crisis; feeling out of sorts and at odds with the life that he was supposed to be living. Mohinder willingly became the shoulder to lean on and tried to help him through it.

Still, there were clues that pricked up the hair on the back of Mohinder’s neck. Nathan’s insistence that the clock was too loud, one minute off…He was losing increasingly longer stretches of time…He looked at Mohinder in the same way that recalled a con man’s ruse that first blew Mohinder’s world apart.

A friendly hug meant to comfort became a tentative kiss.

In front of others they were all professionalism, but even Peter knew something was up, his suspicions towards the growingly intimate relationship were confirmed in unanswered questions and avoided eye contact. Mohinder saw the hurt in his friend’s eyes for what was kept from him and reconsidered coming clean constantly, but in the end he never backtracked.

One night in Mohinder’s apartment a crippling headache brought Nathan to his knees. His body convulsed with spasms befitting a horror film and in front of Mohinder’s shocked and widening eyes, Nathan became Sylar.

“You’re dead,” Mohinder exclaimed, closing his eyes to better believe the lie he had willingly swallowed.

Down the rabbit hole and behind the curtain, the great Oz was a broken record playing a Pied Piper’s tune.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ********** **

  
Which is worse?

He continues the lie of Nathan, working with Sylar to withhold their discovery not only from the world but from Angela and her conspirators as well. Mohinder convinces himself that it is better to keep Sylar as Nathan close to more easily (by way of proximity) influence him if need be, out of protection for the world, and for themselves.

He feels driven to help put together the pieces that make up Sylar, to guide the now lost man as he seeks out the memories of a life taken from him against his knowledge and certainly his will.

The first time they fight again it is a throwback to the days of a smoking gun and a stopped bullet, and Mohinder’s body responds just like his mind—awakened. Sylar is still the only person who _understands_ all the factors that make up Mohinder’s work and the drive behind why he stays the course.

Despite the surface anger and deeply rooted antagonism, intertwined around the friendship that might have been and the wishful intimacy that never was, the person whom Mohinder takes into his arms, and eventually his bed, his body, with focused and knowing eyes, is unquestionably Sylar; no one else.

There are many truths or versions of it.

They mock him and set up vigil at his side.

  
************ ********** ********** *********** **********  
**

No matter the time between indiscretions, no matter the context that sets the tone of each encounter, they never wake up together. Mohinder gives little consideration to Sylar’s thoughts on the matter, he is insistent enough for both of them.

Whether they end up at his own apartment or Nathan’s home, Mohinder awakens in the early morning hours to make haste with his retreat. The second his eyes open he cautiously shifts himself out from beneath damp bed sheets and splayed limbs. Sometimes he steals a brief glance at his companion, his sleeping form a stark contrast to his normally commanding air; in sleep he is almost passive, calm, still.

Most curious is that in the midst of sleep Sylar’s form reverts back to Nathan’s façade, the one his brain still tells him is his primary form despite facts to the contrary.

Mohinder closes his eyes with one man, then, and opens them with another.

At least when he slips out of Nathan’s home he can go to his apartment for the remaining balance of insistent sleep. When he has to escape from his own apartment the only place he finds non-judgmental refuge is the lab set up for him at the ‘new’ Company. There is a makeshift bedroom with a single bed in the back, meant for overworked nights, that has seen him through more trying times than he cares to admit.

Self-reflection is a crushing blow to the ego.

The aftermath is easier to handle when they fuck. Those nights come as a result of passionately opposed dispositions during which they push each other to the emotional and physical brink. Arguments are confrontational with pointed words and grating sentiments that pierce and infect. Space is a battleground they encroach upon with tactical maneuvering for the purpose of inflicting discomfort, unease, and knee-jerk defiance. Touches are punishing, detailed in burst blood vessels blown purple and blue. Words are direct, they claim and demand with dirty urgency.

So tight.  
Harder.  
Wet.  
Faster.  
Lick.  
Fuck.  
Suck you off.  
Fuck me.  
Swallow.  
Come for me.

There is no mistaking what happens between them with anything else. Mohinder braces himself against the living room floor, on his hands and knees as Sylar thrusts into him from behind, gripping at his hips and scratching through the skin with his right hand while holding the back of Mohinder’s neck with the left; their groans the only sounds covering up the steady slap of skin against skin. The bedroom floor helps stabilize Sylar’s knees while he drags his tongue up the length of Mohinder’s erection and takes him in between parted lips. Mohinder fucks his mouth while fighting the urge to gently rest his fingers in Sylar’s hair. He looks down to watch Sylar swallowing his every movement and the second two different pairs of eyes meet, Mohinder closes his and tosses his head back, focusing on the actions instead of the feelings that colour it.

This can all be written off as the unavoidable summation of a most conflicted and tortured relationship swarmed in turmoil from the beginning. It is all instinct and little thought.

The difficult nights are when they make love. Mohinder despises the schmaltzy term but there is no other one that encompasses what it is that transpires. The lead up is quieter and incredibly unassuming. They talk with each other in tones that are more heartfelt and strangely honest. Sylar is irritated to be hampered by the identity forced upon him, even though he would have chosen it on his own for other personal reasons. Mohinder tempers his own frustrations by being the voice of reason and relaxation. Together they are reverent.

Sitting next to each other on the sofa, they share a small smile. Mohinder searches Sylar’s softening eyes. They are so close that the heat of their bodies matches the light spill of exhaled breath against cheeks and lips.

It does not matter who moves first, but it is Sylar who always closes the remaining space and claims Mohinder’s lips for his own while simultaneously sliding his left hand around the back of Mohinder’s neck to hold him closer. Unsure at first, they then deepen the kiss into long strokes and moans, with Mohinder caressing his hands up Sylar’s chest and back. It is as if they cannot keep their hands off each other but want to draw out every single sensory exploration beyond the restraints of time.

The sofa, the bed, it is unimportant. Their movement down the hallway is a slow dance. Tasting the salty skin on exposed necks, hands encircle waists and shoulders, and murmurs of appreciation tickle.

Their naked bodies pressed together, eyes clasped, lips hovering over top each other, every arch and push is slow and languid, etched into memory. Rolling into each other their complimentary angles are the fitted limbs of puzzle pieces. Sylar rests his hands on Mohinder’s ass, encouraging him to push further, speed up, and go deeper. Mohinder wants to drown in him and give over to the full body assault that overwhelms and settles him into a haze of long sought after peace. He needs to overdose and rip free from the world that threatens them, an arm’s length away. Then they are both going over the edge, hurtling head first, minds blissed out, skin flushed.

They collapse together, instinctively syncing their breathing, the moisture on their skin binding them. That is how they remain, entangled, a reformation of some unspeakable creation that exists until Mohinder’s survival instincts lure him out of the seductive trap of undeniable serenity.

He slips away in a panic attack of regret and spiteful conscience. The repeat tastes of (what should be) forbidden fruit do not permanently derail distracted focus. But they do make an argument for follow up analysis of what keeps bringing him back to this same trespass against all that is rational.

He hears the word repeated.

Why?

  
************ ********** ********** ********** **********  
**

Cold turkey.

Rigid. Declarative. Unyielding.

It is easier as an abstract promise than it is to follow through on. But Mohinder gives himself marks (and a disappointed backhand at the failure) for trying.

He denies himself—denies them both—whatever this bewildering spell is that has taken a hold of them. He busies himself with work, keeping his head down and ears open. Learning to ignore the reserved yet suggestive tone directed his way while Nathan speaks to someone else as they pass in the hallway becomes part of the territory.

He visits Matt, Janice and the baby for a long weekend and basks in the joy of a relatively uncomplicated life, one he has wished for but figures was never meant for him. A couple of weeknights he meets Claire at the library and helps her study, offering her useful techniques as she prepares for exams, the entire experience reminding him of a past life far removed from his current one. He stays away from Company meetings that he knows Nathan will attend and when he is forced to go to one he hovers in the back, refusing to give in to the sought after eye contact that is at once taunting and questioning. Living in the illusion becomes a practiced hand.

But even that is not sustainable.

Dinners with Peter become a regular outing and Mohinder grows too accustomed to the solace they bring. So much so that he cannot think of a way out of a dinner to which Nathan is also invited. Caught off guard, Mohinder spends all night playing catch up as Nathan smoothly guides the direction of the conversations with Peter. Not that it helps. He is still stuck having to agree with Nathan’s offer to drop him off at home when they all decide to call it a night, lest more suspicious attention be drawn to them from Peter.

Once outside in the crisp night air, the limo is ignored and Mohinder and Nathan begin a silent and staggeringly self-conscious walk down the block. As they approach an alley on the left, Mohinder is suddenly pushed into it and then Nathan is forcing him against the wall, body pressed to his, with Nathan’s hands yanking at his collar. Mohinder is startled yet reactively curves his body to match the pressing angles, but keeps his hands at his side.

Nathan leans into him and grazes his lips against Mohinder’s right ear. His voice is low and raw. “I missed you.”

Mohinder wonders how anyone can possibly not know the truth. This may look like Nathan—with his short hair, perfectly tailored navy suit, crisp white button-down shirt and red tie—but he _smells_ like Sylar, he is completely permeated by Sylar’s presence. Mohinder’s body thrums.

_I missed you._

It is a lie. Another manipulation meant to crack Mohinder’s resolve and squeeze him under a crushing thumb. It is a cruel joke and he is the unwitting prag.

And yet there is urgency in the inflection that Mohinder has not heard before. Genuine affection? What does it matter when it is far worse—Mohinder wants it to be real. He _needs_ it to be.

Mohinder turns his head and Nathan pulls back slightly so that they are face-to-face. It has been so long—

Mohinder slips his tongue between Nathan’s lips and is greeted by a moaned response vibrating against his mouth. He clutches at Nathan’s waist and feels Nathan slide his fingers up from his collar and around the back of his neck, up into his hair

He considers that maybe Sylar needs the fix as much as him.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Love.

It chokes and stutters, unspoken.

It is a serrated edge knife.

Mohinder dreams that he cuts out his own heart with a spoon. Cupping it in both hands he offers it to Sylar who accepts it with a twisted smile and gleaming eyes.

Sylar bites into it and swallows. Blood marks his cheeks and chin, staining his lips crimson.

He kisses Mohinder and tastes of peaches.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** **********  
**

For an illusion to work, both parties must believe in it, accept it as real.

Mohinder stifles a yawn and begins to get out of bed but the arms around him hold him securely in place. He feels lips press against his back and hears (_can feel it_) the faint murmur of something unintelligible into his skin.

Mohinder waits a moment then gives his breakaway another attempt. Again the arms around him tighten but this time he hears the slumbering, “Five more minutes.”

His heart pumps furiously as his stomach muscles tighten. Slowly he angles his body slightly so that he can look over his left shoulder with as little disturbance as possible. Sharply he sucks in his breath. It is the first time he has ever woken up with Sylar in his proper form—disheveled hair, thick brows, and the bare peek of a new beard, the man bizarrely (_unacceptably_) at ease.

Sylar blinks his eyes half open. “Five more minutes,” he repeats gruffly, tiredly, _firmly_, and nuzzles his nose against Mohinder’s left shoulder before pulling him tight against his chest.

Settling back in the bed—in Sylar’s arms—Mohinder stares at the window across from him, nothing but darkness and the bluish tint of moonlight spilling through the openings of the curtains. Sylar shifts behind him and touches his lips to the back of Mohinder’s neck. Mohinder pushes his right arm up and under the pillow beneath his head while dropping his left hand to rest overtop of Sylar’s arms, wrapped around him, and lightly drags his fingers along them. He parts his legs when he feels Sylar gently nudge his left knee forward, between them, allowing Sylar to curve even closer against him.

What the hell is this? Can a time stamp be put on it?

It is different between them. Again. The rules have all changed. Once more.

Mohinder is trapped in the heat of Sylar’s tightly wound body. The deeper Sylar’s breathing goes the more Mohinder succumbs to the physical hypnosis that all at once transcends this mortal coil.

He knows now that he cannot give this up. He cannot walk away and pretend it does not exist. He is in far too deep to convince himself otherwise, and the effort required to maintain the status quo is too heavy, too demanding, too much.

The alternative is to accept what is fact—

He is as weak as he is strong, as vulnerable as he is infallible. The past will not be changed no matter how much it is fiddled with and what is meant to happen will always find a way to be, though the road may divert. The course of life will always correct itself. What he learns about himself along the way, the dichotomy demanded for survival—for a life worth living—is the meaning behind it all.

This was always going to happen. The variables that make up the why are the curiosity. His addiction is the universal law in practice.

Mohinder’s eyelids are heavy and when he stops fighting himself to stay awake they close quickly, thankfully. Melting into Sylar’s hold, Mohinder presses back into him and begins to slip away—

Just five more minutes, but who’s counting?


End file.
